


The Laundry Fairy

by infiniteeight



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 09:04:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2223297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteeight/pseuds/infiniteeight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil has a mysterious laundry fairy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Laundry Fairy

**Author's Note:**

> Let this fic stand as proof that amireal is capable of giving someone a bunny that doesn't explode to over 10k words. :D

Phil has a mysterious laundry fairy.

It sounds ridiculous. Okay, it _is_ ridiculous. But it's also true. For the past year or so, every time Phil has nearly ruined a shirt or tie on a mission, he leaves it in his office and it vanishes, reappearing later clean and neatly pressed. Small tears would be neatly, almost invisibly repaired. If the shirt is truly a lost cause, it simply vanishes, never to return. But most of the time, they come back.

Phil has no idea how his benefactor works their magic. Not only have they have found ways to remove bloodstains, even when several days old, they've rescued his shirts from sweat stains, swamp muck, slime, _alien_ slime, and several varieties of food. Even Phil's drycleaner can't get out half the stuff that the laundry fairy can.

It's not that Phil can't afford to replace the shirts. SHIELD isn't stingy about replacing items lost in the line of duty. But he doesn't like replacing them, not when he's got them worn in properly and knows just which suit and tie works best with each shirt. Not when some of them have memories attached. Sometimes when he gets back from a mission and looks at yet another ruined outfit, knowing that the shirt and tie, at least, might be recovered makes him feel like not _everything_ is a loss. It's silly, but the symbolism has taken root in his mind.

This is a step beyond, though. Phil knows that even as he stands in his office, shirt in his hands. It's not a dress shirt. It's not a work shirt at all. It's his ancient Rangers PT shirt, the one he's had since he enlisted. The material is worn thin, but it had held up well until this past weekend. He'd been on an early morning jog when a careless civilian with a dog had managed to trip him into a rough concrete wall. Now the shirt is splotched with ground-in dirt and blood, from where his shoulder and hip had impacted the building, and torn at the collar and shoulder on top of that.

If it had been any other t-shirt, Phil would have thrown it out or torn it up for rags. But he's had this shirt for better than twenty years. He'd gone through basic in this shirt. He'd survived his tours in this shirt. The thought of trashing it hurt. Which is how he ended up here, standing in his office, dithering over leaving the shirt here and hoping the laundry fairy found it and considered it worth saving.

"Sir?"

Phil looks up from the shirt in his hands and finds Clint standing in his office door way. "Hey," Phil greets him. They're due for a bit of shared range time before Phil's meeting with Nick. "Ready to go?"

"Yup." Clint pats his hip, where his sidearm is holstered. He'll be practicing with guns today, rather than the bow. "You?"

Phil's weapon is secure in his shoulder holster. He pauses a moment longer, then drapes the t-shirt over the back of one of the visitor's chairs and gives it a pat. "Ready," he says, and follows Clint into the hall, closing his office door behind himself.

There are a lot of agents who don't like putting in their practice at the same time as Hawkeye. The bow isn't the issue; Clint doesn't use the standard range when practicing with the bow because it can't offer anywhere near enough challenge to make it interesting. But although the gun isn't Clint's favored weapon, he still possesses a level of accuracy that other agents find intimidating. There are a handful who avoid scheduling at the same time as him, even cutting their own practice short if he appears.

But Phil has always found Clint's skill inspiring. Seeing what it's possible to accomplish with the weapon makes him push himself harder, makes him demand more of himself. It makes him better. So he goes out of his way to coordinate his range time with Clint's, when he can.

It doesn't hurt that Clint is almost painfully attractive with a gun in his hands.

The hour they've scheduled together seems to flow by and Phil goes to his meeting with Nick smiling. Two hours later, he's drooping a bit--Phil does not envy Nick his job, he really doesn't--but returning to his office afterwards brings the smile back: the t-shirt has vanished from its place on the back of the chair. Dirt and blood and tears won't be a challenge for his laundry fairy; Phil's only worry had been that the worn old shirt wouldn't be considered worth the attention. Maybe he'll try to leave a note of thanks, somehow. 

There's no telling when the shirt will be returned; once a dress shirt he'd given up hope on had reappeared after more than two weeks. Phil doesn't know if the stain had been that bad, or if the mystery person's schedule simply hadn't allowed for laundry. So he tries to put the t-shirt out of his mind, focusing instead preparing for the briefing he'll be giving tomorrow afternoon to the advance team for the Stirling op.

The preparation turns out to be mostly wasted effort; the team doesn't ask a single question, and the briefing ends more than an hour early. Phil hates it when there are no questions. A lack of questions indicates a lack of critical thinking, a failure to look beyond the information presented for possible contingencies. So he's irritated and thinking only of taking the team lead aside privately to mention the issue when he opens his office door and finds Clint standing there, holding something.

At the sound of the door, Clint spins to face him, startled, hands clutching a square of fabric. It's a t-shirt, folded neatly.

It's Phil's Rangers shirt.

"Clint?" Phil asks, his irritation forgotten. He pulls the door closed behind himself. "Is that my shirt?" Of course it is, but he can't think of what else to say.

Clint actually goes a little bit pink. "Yeah." He turns and sets it on Phil's desk. "Good as new. For values of 'new' that include 'twenty years old'." 

He doesn't turn back around, so Phil crosses the room to stand next to him. "Thank you," he says, reaching out to brush his fingers over the shirt. The tears have been mended as neatly as always. "This shirt means a lot to me." He looks up at Clint, who is still looking at the shirt. "But why all the sneaking around all this time?"

Clint shrugs. "I wanted to do something nice for you. But I didn't want you to think about why."

People do favors for each other all the time without having a specific reason why, but Phil doesn't say that, because Clint's words make it pretty clear that he _does_ have a reason, and Phil's got a pretty good idea what it is. "Having a shirt or tie mysteriously rescued from near death always makes me smile," he says. "But Clint, if you wanted to make me happy, telling me why would have been much more effective."

Clint looks up, eyebrows flying up. "You mean...?"

"I mean," Phil confirms, and takes Clint's hand, turning him away from the shirt on the desk to face Phil. He doesn't let go, instead lacing their fingers together. 

Clint smiles slowly and rubs his thumb over Phil's hand. "My mad laundry skills won you over, huh?"

Phil chuckles. "Among other things." He hesitates for a moment, then leans in for a careful kiss. 

Clint returns it sweetly and they touch foreheads for a moment before Clint's free hand comes up to cup the back of Phil's neck, steadying him for a much deeper, more intense kiss. Phil sinks into it, closing his eyes, letting himself enjoy the moment before reluctantly pulling away. "Work," he murmurs. "Have dinner with me later?"

"I'd like that," Clint says. His eyes are sparkling. "Maybe wear a shirt you don't mind messing up."

"Are you a messy eater?" Phil asks, arching an eyebrow, and Clint throws his head back and laughs, exposing the arch of his throat.

Phil will definitely be wearing an outfit that can be discarded in a hurry.

~!~


End file.
